


Resurrectionist

by orphan_account



Series: Resurrectionist Verse [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, It will make sense I promise., Resurrected Jason Todd, set right after Death in the Family but right before Lonely Place of Dying.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-09
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-03-29 00:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13915833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Hateful day when I received life!" The phrase rang out in his mind as he awoke, but he couldn't remember the source. Then he looked down at his new body, and realized why the phrase had come to mind.Jason Todd comes back in an appropriately Gothic manner, while an angry and broken Batman has yet to take Tim Drake in as Robin. Both the timing and manner of Jason's resurrection end up drastically changing things for the entire family.Updates Fridays!





	1. Hateful Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason Todd comes to life.

The boy did not awaken six feet beneath the earth, rain and mud filling his mouth as he tried to dig his way back up into the land of the living. Instead, the boy awoke to a cold, dry darkness, a sudden gasp of breath.

The world was a bright white. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear water against a window. Rain? Beeping, electronic. A heart monitor. The room was cold, there was no wind. It smelled of chemicals. After a few moments in brightness, the room was still a bright and blinding white. His pupils weren't dilating properly. He raised an arm to shield his eyes. There, the shadow of his arm raised above his head, causing a flurry of noise somewhere.

“He's coming to!” Someone exclaimed. Feet shuffle around, a chair creaked and a door slammed. And the boy stared at the light above him trying to process everything.

For a while there was no noise aside from the rain pouring. He tried to think, tried to remember. Jason. Robin. Thunder rumbled around the room and made the light above him shake. Metal on stone, a sharp screech.  _“Manners.”_

His arm had been held in this pose before. Heart pounding as metal slammed against his skin. Over and over.

He was  _alive_. The ceiling above him was stone, tall. A large cavern reaching towards the heavens. The batcave? Safe. He was safe.

His mouth was suddenly full of bile and he leaned over the table to get it out. It smelled of death and acid and formaldehyde. It burned his nose, his throat, his tongue. He wiped his mouth off on the robe-- At least, if he's been given protection from the cold, he probably wasn't a captive. And his hands weren't bound. In fact, his arms were bandaged. Someone was probably taking care of him. Bruce. Alfred. He must be home.

The explosion must just have knocked him out. He's  _alive_.

Suddenly, the door opened. Another light source, right as he had started finally adjusting to the operating light. The world went dark again. A thin silhouette appeared in the light from the door. He swore he could hear an old man chiding him. 'Don't strain yourself, Master Todd.' The ghost's voice was calm and stern all at once.

But when the figure actually spoke, it wasn't an old friend. The tone was as sharp as the sword she normally carried. “You are awake at last.” Immediately, he felt like a lab rat, like a prisoner. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. He's powerless. Armed with only a blanket. Suddenly alert and wake after almost dying. In a room with Talia Al Ghul. There was no time to ask questions. Talia pulled him upright, immediately setting to work on checking the bandages on his upper arms and removing the heart monitors. It took every ounce of self-restraint to keep from pulling away. He wasn't in a state to take on even Talia's guards.

She clicked her tongue and carefully re-wrapped the bandages around his arms. “You are not fully healed.” She repeated. “But you are healing  _quickly_. Good.” Then she looked up, into his face. Inspecting him. It made his skin crawl. She turned away from him and took a cup that one of the men in white coats offers her. “Drink.”

Jason turned his head away and stared at the wall instead. In return, Talia grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look her in the eyes. “I brought you back to life. I would not ruin that hard work by poisoning you. It's water.” She took a sip before she handed it back to him.

The water washed the taste of bile out of his mouth. He felt like the child in Crime Alley again. Gulping down water as if it might be his last. Talia smiled and took the cup away. Handed it back, refilled. Jason paused and stared at the water. Brought him back to life? So he had died, then. Ra's had the Lazarus Pit. It made sense. Even if the memory of his death made him want to throw up all over again.

“Why did you bring me back.” His voice echoed off the stone walls. Immediately regretted asking that. Did he really  _want_  the answer? It's probably because he has some use to toy with Bruce.

Talia gently stroked his hair. The gesture was motherly, at odds with how she had pulled him around by his hair only seconds ago. “Bruce is not taking your death well. He has become reckless on his own. You and Grayson were his light. You kept him human. He needs this back.”

Jason blinked slowly. What? That was-- surprisingly  _human_  for the Demon's Daughter. “Do you expect me to believe that? You brought me back to give me back to Bruce? That's _all_?” Again, pretty sure he knew the answer: When he was healed. Just vague enough to keep him hopeful and complacent while Talia plotted to use him as bait. He clung to the cup, trying to decide his next move.

“You died, and I brought you back to life. I would not bring you back to life as a pawn and nothing else. I could have gotten hold of him in other ways.”

She was being adamant. And it made sense. And he was glad, to be home. No doubt. But still, a part of him felt empty. Hollowed out. He wasn't brought back as a loved one but a pawn. Even in his death, protecting his mother, it hadn't mattered.

Then he remembered. It was fuzzy through the sedation, but it was still real. His arms had gotten blown off. Joker's bomb mixed with falling rubble. Sheila hadn't made it. And Jason hadn't died quickly. His arms were mostly gone, just mangled flesh. And his legs were detached from his body, laying across from him as he had come to. He had tried to force himself to roll over, to look up at the sky. Make that be the last thing he saw, instead of watching himself bleed out.

So how had he lifted himself up off the table earlier?

The bandages wrapped around his biceps. The bandages no doubt wrapped around his legs, were he to remove the robe.

“My arms. They-- they were gone.”

“You were damaged in the explosion.” Was that it? All she had to say. He clenched his fist and the movement, the physicality of the motion contrasted unsettlingly with his dying memory. There wasn't supposed to  _be_  anything there anymore.

“My arms were gone. My legs were...” Suddenly, counting the cracks on the floor seemed more interesting than focusing on reality. Bats had taught him about that. Dissociating. Shock. His arms were gone. That he would come to terms with. That wasn't the problem here. His arms were now back on his body.

But something didn't feel right. Ra's had the Lazarus Pit. It could heal wounds. That must be it.

Then his arms began to itch, in a way he hadn't noticed before. And suddenly it was intense, all he could think about. The tingling and itching of the bandages.

Distantly, he slid off of the table and walked over to the mirror.

Disgust gripped him as his robe slid off of his arms. The left sleeve caught on the bandage and he brushed it away numbly. He felt outside of his body, distant and slow. Dying, dying was final. But at least he had died his own--  _hell_ , he had died saving his mother. He had died a hero.

Now his body was cobbled together. All four limbs were severed at various lengths. One foot was a bit larger than the other. The bandage on his left arm came off, revealing thick, black stitches. An odd contrast to the advanced machinery he had been hooked up to earlier. They stood out against his pale skin, bleeding slightly. His left side was bandaged.

 _What did you do to me?_  He tried to scream. Tried to throw something. But clown laughter echoed in his ears. The smell of tobacco and blood.

“We restored most of your wounds, but we could not replace your limbs. Too much was--”

“He did this to me.  _You_  did this to me.” Why would she bring him back to life at this cost? He wasn't even haunting his own body-- he was haunting some monster that was cobbled together from at least five separate children.

He took a breath, staring at the mirror. At Talia placing a hand on his shoulder. Tears began to fall and Jason reached up to hold her hand. Some small comfort, right?

Then she was flying over him, landing headfirst into the mirror, into the stone wall. Jason leapt onto her back, pulling her arms behind her. One of the doctors standing by leapt at the boy, pulling him off just as others ran into the room after the sound. Jason slid out of the robe and used it as a feint, charging at the two men who ran at him. His arms and legs didn't seem to be giving him much trouble, until he rolled wrong and hurt his ankle. Then it seemed like everything went out one at a time. A block that was a few seconds too slow. Suddenly unable to move his right arm. His other leg gave out right in the middle of a landing, throwing him off. And Talia was upon him, as were two other guards. Talia stood up as the two men held him in place. “You are alive, and that is all that matters.”

“Why bring me back if you couldn't heal me? What, your  _fucking_  Lazarus Pit only works halfway?”

“You should be glad you are alive at all. I knew that Robin would need limbs.”

“That doesn't explain anything, you bitch!” He tried to strain against the men holding him, tried to see if he could pull his own arms off. But their grip kept him from hurting himself, oddly.

“The pits are drying up, and we are working on a new way to raise the dead and heal wounds. We only have one part down so far. And we needed a test subject for the other half.”

So he _had_ been some lab rat.

“I am taking you back to see Bruce tomorrow. My use for you is finished.”

What? She was just-- just going to leave him like this? “How do I make sure it heals right?” Saying it, making a concession that they would heal, sounded wrong. Sounded like it was someone else saying it.

But it was important information, if she was just going to throw him out and observe him from afar.

“You have to give me that much, for Bruce's sake. Sepsis, right? You can't have me die again.”

Talia nodded, kneeling down to look Jason in the eye. “Just let them heal like any wound would.” The normalcy of the mental image made him want to throw up again. Made it seem permanent and real.

“And I guess you're going to be watching me, waiting for your chance to cash in on the 'favor' for Bruce?”

No response. He was right, again. Talia stood back up and walked to the door. “Sleep. We have an early flight tomorrow.”

The men released him, one leading him by the shoulder into a side room in this odd chamber. There was another stone room, this one with a surprisingly modern memory foam mattress and pillow and little else.

Nothing but the best for her new lab rat, apparently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet me on tumblr @ getclever.tumblr.com !
> 
> Song for this chapter: "Body" by Mother Mother
> 
> Take my eyes, take them aside  
> Take my face, and desecrate  
> My arms and legs  
> They get in the way


	2. Your Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason Todd makes a new friend.

Jason couldn't sleep. Too tense. Too disgusted. His arms felt too light, not nearly as much muscle mass as he normally had. Used to have. Thankfully, they had given him loose pants to wear to bed. But he kept looking at his arms, picking at the stitches. It hurt. It _hurt_. He could feel in his fingers. The other kid's fingers.

Again the sensation of nausea returned. He wasn't just broken and brought back to life against his will. Someone else's body had been grafted onto his own. He hadn't asked for any of this, but especially not to come back wearing half of someone else's body.

Maybe they hadn't suffered, at least. Maybe Talia had taken them off of fresh corpses. The thought brought him little comfort, but it did bring him some comfort. Pretending that it wasn't some kids his same age slowly bleeding out and screaming as someone surgically removed their limbs. Maybe they had been under anesthesia. Or maybe they were dead before Talia mutilated their corpses.

Could he let them heal like this? What if he-- what if he took them _off_?

He pulled at the stitches, his fingernails slick with blood. He tried using his teeth instead, but that simply left his arm full of bite marks and a mouth full of iron.

His legs, then. He could use both hands. He wiped his hands off on his pants, trying to get the blood off. Tore off a fistful of fabric and bit down on it. And dug his fingers into the wound. It wasn't his leg. He had to get it off of his body. He would-- Bruce could find some way to fix it. Something more humane.

The wound began to bleed again, seeping between his fingers. He almost bit through the fabric, the pain was so intense. And then he pulled, trying to pry the stitches open. Blood covered his fingers as the stitches popped. Shoulders strained as he trying to separate the wounds. His finger brushed something that sent a shock through his entire body. There were spots in his vision and his entire leg was on fire, even more excruciating than the Joker slamming a crowbar into his knee. Even more sharp and white-hot than digging his fingers around the wound the first time. Worst of all, the pain of it lingered, making him fall back onto his bed. He bit down on the fabric again, waiting for the feeling to pass.

Right. The leg had nerves. Important ones, too. The sciatic, the femoral, And he had just gone digging around, rabidly poking at a wound. The nerves must be connected. Explained how he could walk around and move his hands. But the muscle and skin and vessels didn't, and still don't, seem to have fully connected-- he could still feel _something_ sliding around as he lifted his arm in the air again. And of course, they're still openly bleeding. Dripping blood down his arm, onto his neck.

Again, the question, what had he done to deserve this? Even when he was dying, he had tried to save his mother. The one who had sold him out to the Joker. She had told him it was safe, that Joker was gone. The one who had caused him to die in the first place, and had simply stood there watching as he was beaten and sobbing.

There was a sob in the distance. It put him on high alert for a few moments until he realized that it was his own voice. He was crying. Again, he felt detached and numb. An out of body experience. A ghost, haunting a sewn-together corpse. He let his mind float for a while, distantly watching himself cry.

If anyone had ever told Jason Todd that he would die and would _regret_ coming back to life, he would have called them a liar. But here he was, wishing he was back six feet under.

At some point, he did sleep. He dreamed of heaven. Of seeing his mother again. His real mother. Not Sheila. _Catherine_. She was singing to him, holding him close. He dreamed of being pulled from her arms by a mass of children, crying as they rended him. They kept telling him their names and how much it hurt. A girl reached through the darkness, her right arm mangled and dripping a black ichor.

He fought the other children off of him. Cracked skulls and broke ribs under his feet as bodies turned to bone and then to dust. She grabbed his hand, pulling him through a window. They were falling, crashing into the water. An explosion overhead. The water was cool, turning his skin to ice. A salve against the burns across his skin.

She pulled him ashore. They sat on the wooden dock and watched the fire. Tried to ignore the laughing that sounded like crackling flames. Then she led him to the beach, pointing up to the castle above. There was a large window facing east, reflecting the flames and moonlight. The window they had just leapt from.

“My name is Robin.” He finally introduced himself. He pointed to the metal “R” medallion _seared_ into his bare chest. “I'm going to get you out of here.” The girl nodded as he spoke, tried to stand. He wrapped his arm ( _her arm_ ) around her waist and helped pick her up. “I'm a superhero! It's my job to help people. I'm going to help you.” He didn't quite know why he was boasting, but it felt right. Reminded him of his strength. He training. “I can fight. I can protect you.”

“Thank you, Robin. My name is Nasrin.” She was weak, her skin more blue than brown. Her lips were chapped and she was moving slowly, weak but graceful at the same time. Her arm was still dripping blood on to the sand. “I'm glad I got to help a superhero.” She nodded towards his arm. _Her_ arm.

“I didn't ask for this. I'm sorry, Nasrin. About your arm.”

“It's alright. Just promise me. Bury me facing the sky, please. Don't let me die in this tomb. I forgive you. For borrowing my arm.” Nasrin finally broke the silence. “Just... put it to good use. Go save people.”

Robin nodded.

When Jason woke up, he found himself standing upright and staring out the barred window. Staring at the sea, the beach below. He could swear he saw red splatters on the sand.

The door behind him opened and Talia came to collect him. The sun was barely starting to rise.

“What did you do your leg?” Her voice was somehow both emotionless and displeased at the same time.

“It's not my leg!” His voice was shrill as he bared his teeth at her. “I was in _heaven_! I died as a hero! Now what am I? Some monster? And you say that you love Bruce!” He laughed at her, right in her face. “If you try to fix it, I'll just do it again.”

The slap didn't hurt much. But it did daze him, enough for two men to grab his arms while she plunged the needle into his neck. “I assumed that you would hurt yourself, but you have done too much damage. This will take another week to repair, Jason. Don't you want to see Bruce again?”

Jason bared his teeth again, spitting at her. “Not as a monster.” With his heart racing like this, the sedation would probably not take long. “When I see Bruce, I'm going to make sure that he destroys all of this.” He pulled against the men holding him back, gesturing vaguely to himself. “I don't care if I can't be Robin again. I'm not _living_ like this.”

“I will have to keep you here until it heals fully, then. And who knows what Bruce will do to himself in the meantime.”

Finally, his vision was starting to blur. “I thought you were using me to help him! And now you're threatening him?” What was her end goal here?

“No, _you_ are threatening him. He needs you. You were, you are, one of his sons. Your death has broken him, and he has been taking too many risks. You _will_ heal. And then I will return you to Bruce. The more you delay your healing, the longer time until you see him again.” She nodded to the guards and they dragged him out of his 'bedroom'. “Take him to the surgeon to have his leg healed.”

He could finally feel his body going limp. Could feel his own feet dragging on the ground as they pulled him along. Stumbling, tripping across the atrium he had awoken in. And out into the hall. More doors. More hallways. Of course, a place as large as this could only belong to Ra's.

There were cries from the hall. This time, it wasn't him. Not an out of body sensation. This was other children crying up ahead. Others sobbing in pain. “W—who is-- who'sat?” He tried to drag his feet, push himself backwards. Away from that screaming. But it was no use, the men holding him kept marching. Step by step. And the screaming grew louder. And he finally fell asleep again. Nasrin wasn't there this time.

When he awoke again, his leg was stitched and bandaged, and the same two men were dragging him back to his room.

One of the doors was ajar this time. Making room for a person dragging a body inside. The sound of the dead weight, of flesh scraping across the stone was sickening. There was a whole pile of bodies inside, shades of flesh and bruising all twisted in a pile. The body that was being dragged was a girl about his age. Her right arm was a stump, leaking blood from the same place that his own arm began. The girl from his dream. Nasrin. Her neck twisted as the man dragged her across the floor. She stared at him.

She was dead. Her eyes saw _nothing_. But it looked like she was staring at him anyway. Somehow, even in passing, the unblinking gaze was accusatory and terrifying.

Jason could have sworn he had seen her blink. But no, no. Dead bodies don't _blink_. It must have been his imagination.

He was Robin. He should help them. Help the other children. At least help them have graves. Proper burials.

His arms were moving on their own, struggling against the guards again, but more fiercely. Wild, animalistic fighting for _life_. The guard on his left flew back towards the wall and Jason's arm lifted into a left hook. Distantly, he could hear the girl-corpse laughing. And so he kept fighting, both for her and for himself.

Two guards to one Robin was no match. Even if he was wounded. He was alert now, without the sedative handy. A third guard, the one holding the Nasrin’s body, tried running and grabbing him by the neck but Jason ducked, using the momentum to flip the man onto his back. For good measure, he kicked the man in the head a few times.

Nasrin was still staring. The feeling of guilt and shame returned again-- an unneeded distraction while trying to escape. He tried to push it down. Focus. Look for an escape. The hallway was all locked doors and stone walls. No escape there. But the room with the bodies-- there had been light.

He pulled her with him, into the room. The smell was earthy and sickening, a smell of rot and decay. A pile of children. Dead children. At least ten bodies, maybe more considering how some were only limbs or torsos.

But there was light, on the other side of the room. He gently pulled Nasrin away from the pile, towards the light. It was a window!

He set her body down on the floor once he reached the wall. The window was unbarred. Of course. Everyone in it was supposed to be dead. The outlook was right above a large, sheer cliff face. The waves were cold and blue, the rocks sharp and grey. If they could get down, climb carefully, they could get to boats, or a plane, they could get away. Get to Gotham. Come back for the other children.

Cloth. Needed cloth. He grabbed the guard that had been wrestling with Nasrin, stripping him down to his underwear. The limbs were heavy and stiff, but with the door closed now, he felt safe enough.

He pulled the shirt on, using the pants as a sling to tie Nasrin to his back. “It's going to be a long climb. Are you ready?” She -- obviously-- didn't respond. Jason laughed at himself. Bruce would have a field day if he saw this.

Rigor mortis had already set in. He wrestled her onto his back, wrapping her arm around his waist. It held. Cold and clammy, but it held.

Talia's voice rang out through the halls, guards began rattling the doors to look for the escapee. He wound some fabric from the sling around his hand and punched through the glass.

Nasrin laughed, somewhere deep in his mind _“Be careful with my arm, you promised.”_ He smiled and began to lower himself out of the window.

The barrel of a gun appeared out of the window, a muzzle flashing near his face. There was a ringing in his ears. Talia was shouting something and the gun retreated. _“Don't kill him. Let him go.”_ He could almost hear. Talia finally reappeared overhead, her head poking out of the window to stare down at him. He was already scrambling a few yards down the cliff, out of range of a sword or knife. “Carrying a corpse on your back will only slow you down, Jason.”

He reached the bottom of the cliff and let Nasrin slide off of his back. He rolled his shoulders, trying to get the aching feeling out. She flopped into the sand and he gently tried to prop her body up. He could come back for the others. Bury them properly. But at least the girl who had helped him escape was able to see the blue sky, the sun shining overhead.

He untied the knot and took the pants and belt off of his chest. Secured in a holster was a curved knife. A weapon. Good. He slipped out of the linen pants and put on the guard's pants. Now he had a whole uniform. And his scars were finally covered up. Out of sight, out of mind. He might be able to sneak onto and steal a boat.

Talia didn't seem to be chasing him. At least not yet. He took a few moments to close Nasrin's eyes, folding her arms in her lap instead of akimbo at her side.

He walked away, towards the docks that she had shown him in his dream. He glanced back at Nasrin one last time and he could swear he saw her smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not going to be the last we hear from Nasrin!  
> Also, I am going to be updating on Fridays from now on because it's easier on my school schedule.  
> Song for this chapter: "Your Ghost" by The Decemberists.
> 
> And when you take your rest  
> My weight upon your breast  
> And should you close your eyes  
> I'll still materialize  
> Your ghost, oh your ghost


	3. Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jason Todd comes home.

“Yesterday, you collapsed from your wounds. Next time, I am not certain you will survive them.” In response, Bruce had simply raised a hand and pointed at the door. And so Alfred had left the bedroom. Leaving Bruce to reflect on his eldest friend's words. Doubtful that he actually would, but Alfred could hope. For the sake of his own old heart. It had only been three months since Jason had died, but already Bruce was spiraling out of control. And Alfred was not content to sit and watch his charge, his friend, die.

  
The doorbell rang. It sounded ominous now, echoing through the empty house. If Alfred didn't know better, he would say that Bruce had changed it somehow. To better suit his mourning and depression.

  
Dick had come into Gotham last week, speaking at Anthony Zucco's parole hearing. And then later, helping Batman on a case involving Zucco’s ledger-- which had been destroyed during the fight. As if Jason's death wasn't enough to deal with.

  
But it meant that at least one of his sons was spending time in the manor. It helped make it feel a bit less empty.  
Apparently unsatisfied with the butler's response time, the door handle turned and the door rattled. Alfred picked up the pace, ignoring Bruce slinking around behind him. Heading for the grandfather clock as Alfred went to answer the door.

Dick had a key to the front door.

He could swear he heard a muffled crying noise on the other side of the door, the banging on the door grew more incessant. Bruce paused near the couch. Intent and frozen in curiosity and danger. Alfred crept towards the door slowly, grasping the now shaking doorknob. Whoever was on the other side seemed intent on breaking the blasted knob off.

Bruce edged closer, ready to act if need be. Alfred cracked the door open. A hand shot out towards him and in the golden morning sun, he could almost swear he had seen a grin and bright blue eyes. Alfred shut the door again as quickly as he could, a shaking hand slamming the deadbolt and chain into place. The voice began openly sobbing, yowling like a cat. “Alfred. Bruce. Please.”  
He could see Bruce shatter in an instant. Knew exactly what Bruce thought he had heard because, dammit, he had sworn he had heard it as well. But no, no. It couldn't be.

He had helped bury the boy himself.

“Alfred, let him in.” Bruce tried picking himself up off of the floor but failed. He was still weak from the injuries. And now the emotional wounds had been ripped open as well. There was no way that Bruce could handle whatever was happening right now. Alfred himself was at his limit just seeing what looked like the boy's face for a few moments.

The doorknob stopped rattling. It didn't sound like fists on the door anymore. It sounded louder, more solid. A single thud, like a body slamming against the door. “Please let me in. I promise I can explain.”

  
Alfred lifted a hand to unlock the door again. Jason-- yes, for now, he would consider it Jason-- was curled up against the door. He was in a black suit, like the one he had been buried in. The boy looked up at his grandfather, tears streaming down his face. “It's me, I promise. Please, you have to let me in. It's cold.” The boy's hands were shaking as they gripped his knees, the thin fabric of his suit. The fabric was not meant to be insulating. He was supposed to have been dead when he was put in it. He was dead when he was put in it.

Bruce was behind him, throwing the door open all the way and gently picking up the boy. Alfred tried to protest but god, he wanted this to be true as well. For a moment he pushed the thoughts away. Went to grab a blanket from the hall closet to wrap Jason in.

Maybe this was just a dream. Maybe this was his moment of closure. Bruce had said he had been haunted with nightmares before, of Jason showing up on his grave. Maybe this was his ghost giving him one last goodbye. But as Alfred looked out the door at sunrise, at the morning chill on his face, it didn't feel like a dream.

He shut the door and locked it tight against any other morning intruders.

“It's alright, Jay-lad. _Jason_. You're home. You're safe now, son.” Bruce looked almost as small as when he had returned from Ethiopia. He was sitting on his bed again, hunched over and crying, but this time with his son in his arms. Alive. Breathing. Sobbing.

Alfred gently placed a hand on Bruce's shoulder. What would the next course of action be? To have breakfast, act as if everything was now back to normal? Run tests to see how Jason was alive again-- if it truly was Jason? Perish the thought, but they had to be sure.

It was when Alfred went to sit next to Bruce, curling his arms around Jason as well, that he notice that Bruce wasn't letting the boy speak. Kept shushing him and crying. Jason would try to say something to Bruce and Bruce would shake his head and start crying against before Jason could get anymore than a few syllables out.

“Sir, perhaps you should let the boy speak. He has been...gone for a while. And he might have something important to say.”

Bruce shook his head. “No. I've had this dream before. When he's back, if I let him talk, he tells me it's not real. I just want to hold him for a while. Before the fever breaks.”

Alfred raised his arm, gripping Jason's hand in his own. “Your fever broke this morning. Bruce. This is real. Jason is here with us. Aren't you, my boy?”It was as much to console Bruce as it was to put himself at ease.

Jason nodded. “I'm real. Tal--” There was suddenly a distant look in his eyes and and began to stir in Bruce's arms. “Can I get some water, please?”

Alfred didn't want to leave the room. Didn't want to come back to find Jason gone, to see Bruce holding thin air. Maybe they both had gone mad in their aging.

He walked to the kitchen, hand shaking as he reached for a cup. The water that came out of the faucet was too loud. It crashed in the sink, echoing off the metal. He reached a hand under the water, turning it as cold as it would go as he splashed his face with it.

Something to calm himself down, let him breathe. He dried his face off and filled the cup up. When he returned to the room he was much more composed. Jason reached both hands for the cup. Both hands were distinct from each other, or maybe it was a trick of the light. Something about this felt off right away.

Bruce finally seemed to come to his senses a bit and gently set Jason on the edge of the bed next to him. The boy gently kicked his legs as he gulped down the water. Always restless.

“We do need to get to the bottom of this eventually.” Bruce placed a heavy hand on Jason's shoulder. “We need to get blood tests, fingerprints. Make sure it's really you.” Jason nodded, gripping his cup for dear life. For a while he was silent and Bruce pulled Jason into a hug. “You're safe, it's alright. We just need to make sure it's you.”

At that, Jason stiffened and wormed his way out of Bruce's arms. “Most of me is me. But I don't know how it will look on a blood test. Or fingerprints.” Jason finally spoke. As he did, he began to pull himself out of his jacket.

It was then that Alfred finally took in Jason’s appearance. He was not in a funeral suit. It was thick black cotton, flowing pants and top. A League of Assassins uniform. He could see Bruce shifting too. It was a trick. Some final trick of Ra’s. No, this family would never have peace.

Jason seemed to ignore the men suddenly tensing up as he unwound the belt around his waist, playing with the ragged hem of his shirt. “Talia was there when I woke up. She brought me back to life. But--” He stopped, curling into a ball again, leaning into Bruce's chest. “I died, Bruce. I blew up. I was bleeding out from everywhere. My arms, my legs were...”

“It's okay, you're alive son.” Bruce clamped his arms tight around Jason, rubbing his back slowly. “You're alive.”

Bruce remembered. Picking up his son's body from the rubble, finding separated arms and legs and making sure that those dislocated limbs didn't have any shreds of his Robin costume. Prying apart dead and burned fingers to slide off the remnants of a glove. He had a closed casket funeral. There hadn't even been enough left to even cross his arms over his chest.  
But it didn't matter. He was here, and he was whole, and he was alive.

Jason moved out of Bruce's grasp again. “No, no. I need to-- I need to show you. You'll find out sooner or later.”

“Find out what?” Bruce bristled again. Alfred had been wrong, this had been a fever dream. Jason was going to die again, in his arms. Fall apart right before his eyes, just like he had so many nights.

“Talia didn't make me whole again. She brought me back, but not all of me.”

“Jason, all in due time. You don’t have to tell us what she put you through right now. All that matters is that you are here and safe.” Alfred knelt down, gripping Jason's hand until his knuckles were pale.

“I need to do this. And I need my hand, Alfie.” Jason sighed as he wiggled his hand out of Alfred's. The exhale sounded halfway like a laugh. Even the smallest hint of a laugh made both of his parents smile. They had missed this, the way he could laugh through the dread and the darkness.

Jason shook his head again. His head was going to fall off at this rate. He apparently changed his mind, uncurling his legs and pulling his shirt off. “Talia brought me back to life. But only part of me.” He repeated it, sounding hollow again. “So she tried to... tried to fix me.” He closed his eyes and unfolded his arms.

The Y-incision was clear on his chest. But that was far from the only scar. There were burn scars from the explosion covering his right side, scars running across his biceps. The skin-- the skin of his arms was a different shade of brown than his shoulders and chest. The jagged black stitches on his arms were-- _No_.

“My arms and legs were gone.” He repeated. “So Talia… tried to fix me.”

Jason kept his eyes shut, waiting for the others to react. To mourn for him, to cry over his appearance. He could hear Bruce's gasp, the held breath. The squeak as Bruce stood up, his footsteps as he walked away. Did he hate him? Was he going to get thrown out?

“Does it hurt?” Alfred was the  first one to break the silence, in that calm and even voice that sounded like Jason had just skinned his knee or broken a bone.

Bruce slammed the bathroom door closed and turned on the sink. Probably to hide him throwing up.

Jason shuddered as the door slammed. He tensed and glanced at the bedroom door, the window. Itching to run away again. This was a mistake, coming back. He was too damaged. Bruce would never forgive him--

“Does it hurt?” Alfred asked again, firmly but gently grasping Jason's wrist. Jason tried to jerk his hand away. Alfred simply held him tighter, holding him in place. In his family’s arms. He nodded at his grandson, both of them sitting back onto the bed. Jason let his hackles fall, letting the muscles in his shoulders relax as he sat back down. “This is your family. We aren't going to abandon you just because you sacrificed something in a war. Now. Does it hurt?”

Jason blinked, unsure what to say. Sacrifice. It was true, he had sacrificed to protect Sheila. But it still felt wrong. Those other children had sacrificed to give him his arms. Was it an even trade? Did it matter now that they were dead?

“It doesn't hurt. It feels like my arm. But it's not. But it was someone's arm. I saw them. I saw the...” He finally opened his eyes. “Her name was Nasir, and she said she was fine with me having her arm. I had a dream about it. I guess it’s alright then, right? I helped her. And she helped me. And they're all dead, so I can't do anything about it now. I guess. And now I-- I can start training again. I can be Robin again. I can help Bruce. I know it’s disgusting but--”

Alfred shook his head sternly. “Stop that talk, my boy. I’ve seen far worse on the battlefield. Furthermore, were Bruce's war a more sanctioned one, that sacrifice would earn you a medal for bravery. So long as you aren’t in pain… I suppose it’s-- it’s alright. Does it bother you?”

Jason reached out, squeezing Alfred’s hand this time. “Yes. Is there a way we can fix it?”

“Prosthetics have come a long ways since my time in war, but they have not advanced very much. I would need to research, we would all need to talk it over. Not now, but later. The end choice is up to you, of course. Don’t worry about Bruce, or about me, or about Robin. Jason Todd, I want you to worry about what you want, about your own future.”

The pile of dead bodies, the stench, contrasted with the memory of the wind on his face as he leap across a gap in Gotham's rooftops. “I miss sparring with Bruce. And jumping off of buildings.” Now tears were falling and Jason wiped them away with a hand that wasn’t truly his own. “I'm tired, Alfred. I miss my bed.”

Alfred pulled back the sheets on Bruce’s bed. “I’m afraid your bed isn’t ready. You can sleep here, much like you did your first few nights.” Bruce had thrown a silent rampage after Jason's funeral, going methodically through the house and throwing out all of Jason’s things. Alfred had managed to save some of the more personal items and the books, but the bedroom was currently empty and full of three month’s worth of dust. The boxes of things that Alfred had managed to save were tucked away in the butler’s room.

  
But after all that Jason had suffered, he didn’t need to hear that right now. Alfred would need to get a new bed tomorrow, convince Bruce to put it together…

Jason was alive. Jason was obviously in distress. Jason's wounds needed to be tended to. Bruce's wounds needed to be tended to as well. Jason’s room was gone, as were all his possessions. Jason wanted to be Robin again. They had to tell the rest of the family that Jason was alive. But it could all wait while the boy rested and hopefully had good dreams after his no-doubt harrowing resurrection.

One day at a time. One conversation at a time.

Jason nodded, curling up against the pillow. Alfred smiled, tucking him in. Next course of action was to get Jason new clothes. Long sleeves. One step at a time.

The bathroom sink shut off and behind the door came the unmistakable sound of a window sliding open. Jason sighed and wrapped the heavy comforter tighter around him. Alfred patted the boy’s head. “I’m sure he’s just processing everything. You know how he is. His form of stress management is swinging his fists, much like you used to do.”

Jason laughed again, finally closing his eyes. “Hey, Alfie? Will you stay with me? I don’t want to wake up alone again.”

Alfred nodded, already sitting himself in the reading chair across from the bed. Jason closed his eyes and Alfred simply watched. Enraptured at his eyelids fluttering and his chest moving. He was alive again. His grandson was here, safe in bed and sleeping under a soft down comforter. No less than the boy deserved.

Yes, Alfred was more than happy to stand guard as Jason slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: Runaway by AURORA
> 
> And I was running far away  
> Would I run off the world someday?  
> Nobody knows, nobody knows  
> And I was dancing in the rain  
> I felt alive and I can't complain  
> But now take me home  
> Take me home where I belong  
> I can't take it anymore
> 
> A nice breather chapter after two rather gory chapters. Alfred is my favorite to write so far, but I'm sure that Bruce is going to be fun in later chapters...


	4. Satan's Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce works things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so late! I had a paper to work on for uni. Also, I know it's bad form to shift pov in the middle of a scene but I did it a few times in the last scene just because I personally thought it flowed better. It's not like this is a published work so I don't mind fudging the rules a bit for a fanfic.

Initially, he had gone out the window to stake out the docks. There was something going down at the warehouse today. But Jason was here, Jason was alive. He couldn't leave him again. He had to stay close, to protect his son. To help if he called. To help if Alfred called-- in case it was all a trap. Tried not to dwell too long on that last option.

Bruce ended up using the exterior entrance into the Cave. Lost count of how many rounds he had given the punching bag when Alfred appeared in his peripheral. “Bruce.” Bruce simply frowned, staring forward at the bag instead. “I assumed you would be out punching criminals. But I am glad you decided to stay close. I suppose for you, this is a huge improvement.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh and threw another punch.

“Bruce, as much as I'm sure you're enjoying ruining all fifty-three of the stitches I gave you last night, we need to talk about this. I am about to make breakfast and I don't feel like delaying this conversation.”

Bruce grabbed the bag, stopping it from swinging. He swallowed the lump in his throat, along with all the other emotions trying to spill out. “My son is alive and I'm  _ still _ angry.” What kind of father did that? He finally met Alfred's gaze. Thankfully, his friend, his butler, wasn't giving him one of his disapproving glares. “I killed Zucco. I wanted to give at least  _ one _ of my sons the knowledge that the source of all his pain was gone. But Joker is still missing. It's been two months. Clark and I went back to the bay twice, trying to find out where he was. Any clue of where that bastard had gone.  _ Nothing _ . He's still out there somewhere. I can't let Jason be Robin again. Not while Joker is alive. And maybe not ever. I can't  _ lose _ my son again, Alfred.”

“Before you no doubt obsess over finding the Joker, might I suggest taking some time off of Batman and focus on sitting down with your son and asking him  _ how he's doing _ ?”

There it was. The one-hit, one-liner from Alfred that could bring even Batman back to reality. Bruce nodded, gently rolling his shoulders and starting his cool-down. It was already hard raising Jason, and it wasn't like there was a book specifically about  _ Fathers: What To Do When Your Son Comes Back to Life. _

“What should I do, Alfred? What does he need?” He remembered the last argument. He hadn't taken Jason's side into consideration which is what led to him running off, finding the address book... everything after that.

“You will need to ask him yourself, preferably after both of you have had lunch. Most of all, he needs you as a  _ father _ , Bruce. Not as Batman. He didn't come all the way from wherever Talia was holding him to see Batman. He needs you.”

Bruce was silent for a while. He dropped his arms to his sides and carefully sat down on the mat. Hands folded in his lap, he tried regulating his breathing. Straining not to let his voice crack. “He's not disgusting. I heard him say that, and he's not. He's my son, and I will do whatever he wants to help him heal. Any treatment, any prosthesis. I can do this for him. I _have_ _to_ do this for him. To make up for getting him _killed_.”

“You should tell him, not me. Furthermore, Jason does not just need physical healing,or prosthesis should he make that choice on his own. He needs us to support him emotionally as well. There is much that has been thrown in our laps at once. But we need to handle it one conversation at a time. One topic at a time.”

One topic at a time. Methodical. Like working a case. That, Bruce could handle.

“I am going back upstairs to check on Jason. You should be there when he wakes up. He would appreciate it. As I told you this morning, you need to stop thinking with just your fists.”

“It still feels like a dream, some wicked hallucination.”

“It feels like it to me as well, sir. But we have to believe it for now. Jason needs us. We cannot risk pushing him away while he's in this state.”

Bruce nodded and followed Alfred upstairs. For the first time in weeks, he took  _ time _ to keep from bothering his wounds. No rushing into a battle, no sick enjoyment from the pain. He was careful moving up the stairs. It both gave him time to think on Alfred's words and time to figure out a course of action, the proper response to this. Not physical action. Think with your head.

When he reached the hallway, Alfred was shutting the door to his own room, one of Jason's sweaters in his arms. “I did manage to save a few things.” The statement without admonishment, but with the hidden promise that they  _ would _ discuss it later.

“Thank you, Alfred. I appreciate it.” It was all that he could manage for now.

He opened the door to his bedroom, steeling himself for the image of Jason sleeping. Jason alive. He wasn't tossing and turning. His eyelids were flickering softly. Hopefully he was having plenty of good dreams. His boy deserved that.

Bruce walked up to the bed, simply staring for a few moments. Jason was here. Maybe his mistakes weren't too great after all. Maybe the universe was trying to giving him some reprieve after two months of utter hell. He leaned down and gently kissed his son on the forehead before returning to the bathroom to get ready for lunch.

He had raised two strong and capable sons, and both of them were alive.

* * *

 

Nasrin was in Robin’s dream again. Both were standing in the lobby, Nasrin staring at the dirt that he had tracked in earlier.

In these dreams, his name was always Robin. He wasn't Jason Todd. He was the hero, the boy wonder. It was his entire identity.

“So this is where you live? It's nice. It's  _ huge _ !”

Robin shrugged. “You should see the cave. That's where the fun stuff is!”

“The superhero cave? You guys have a whole  **_cave_ ** ?”

Robin grinned, giddy at her utter awe. “My partner's name is Batman. We protect all of Gotham city, and the cave is our base. Like Superman and the fortress.” He raised an eyebrow, hoping she would recognize at least some of those names.

Nasrin elbowed him in the ribs. “Now I  _ have _ heard of Superman.”

“You seriously haven't heard of Batman?” He pursed his lips and shook his head.

Nasrin shook her head and pulled him towards the stairs. “Show me around upstairs first! I want to see where I'm going to be living now.”

Robin smiled again, a sense of calm coming over him at the idea of Nasrin living here.

He showed her around the manor, told her stories about being Robin. 

The hallway near his room was dark shadows. As they walked closer, there was a creature there, and suddenly light illuminated it, a flickering candlelight. It was a long and and demonic monster, looking like a young boy but with proportions so tall that it was hunched over, back brushing the ceiling. It looked like something out of a Goya painting, the image of the monster eating his son. But the body that it had in his hands was a twin of Robin himself. His own right arm was torn off, dripping blood.

And suddenly, Robin wasn't standing and watching his doppelganger being devoured. He was the doppelganger, feeling teeth wrench at his arm. It smelled like blood and rot and sulphur. There was a pop as it pulled his left arm out of his socket as well. He screamed. The stitches in his bicep popped open and his arm began to bleed again.

In the blurry world between dream and waking, he was faintly aware of someone placing a hand on his shoulder, kissing his forehead.

In the dream, the monster reared it's head in agony and dropped him. His arm was back to normal, both of them. The stitches were not bleeding anymore. The monster dipped it's head low. The eyes were dark grey, wide and wild and feral. The stench of it's breath blowing right in their faces as it screamed at them.

Nasrin grabbed him by the hand and pulled him down the hallway. Running towards the study room, the window open and glowing with sunshine. Birdsong sounded soft, a bluejay crying. The breeze was soft on his face. The monster was gone. It's screams were echoing in his mind but he focused on the sunrise. He held tight onto Nasrin's hand. The one that was made of dripping black ichor. It was cold and strange to touch, but it was solid just like a normal arm would be. “I'm glad that you're going to be staying here.”

The two of them stood staring out the window. The trees and grass and birds were all tinged blue in the half-twilight as the sun climbed in the sky.

The sun was rising as the afternoon lazily stumbled in. The light grew brighter and brighter, waking him up. He was in a room, blue and filled with steam. In a soft bed. Nasrin was not there.

Jason awoke to the shower running, the smell of steam and shampoo wafting from beneath the door. It smelled like family, like home. Like his father. Not the stench of the the room of corpses, or the sulphur in that creature’s breath.

* * *

 

The sunlight was bright. He rolled over in the bed, burying himself deeper into the blankets. Alfred stood up, entering his line of sight. Bruce was in the shower. Breakfast was in the oven. A basic casserole. “It's not the meal you were expecting, but of course, we weren't expecting you to arrive.”

“It's fine Alfred. If you made it, I'm sure it will sound great. And Bruce is eating with us?” Jason sat up. It was great-- the family back together. Eating breakfast like normal.

Bruce came out of the bathroom, already dressed in black slacks and a dark grey sweater. For him, this was casual wear. Jason changed into the red sweater that Alfred had saved for him, along with a pair of jeans. He stared at his feet. They were different sizes, but only barely. It was disconcerting. Like a surreal picture where it's normal but just slightly off. Enough to make his stomach flip. Alfred knocked on the door to check on him. It pulled him out of his daze and he went downstairs.

Bruce was waiting in the kitchen, pulling him into a huge hug.

It was almost awkward, sitting down for breakfast: Oh, how are you doing? How was your trip back from the dead? While you were gone I tried to get myself killed as well. I missed you. I'm glad you're back.

The silence was tense. Everyone was chewing slowly and softly and only grunting out small approvals at Alfred's cooking.

Bruce finally set his fork down, staring at Jason. “I-- I want you to know that whatever you want to do with your-- injuries-- is fine with me. We can--”

Jason's stomach churned. He had been trying to ignore his  _ situation _ so he could at least get some food down. “Let's talk about this later. Please.”

“Right.” Bruce cleared his throat. “We can go shopping later to get you clothes. And a new bed.”

“Sounds good.” It was all that Jason could manage. They had to start somewhere, but Bruce had started off on the wrong subject and it immediately riled him up. He tried to calm down, tried to settle down. But Bruce was content to keep putting his foot in his mouth.

“I'm sorry if the way I treated you before made you run off. I just wish you would have listened to me--”

Everything began to smell like sulphur. It made Jason’s stomach churn. Shadows seemed darker, like a scene in chiaroscuro, the little light harsh and flickering as if lit by candle. Anger started to boil up, red and simmering in his chest. Bruce was staring at him, judging him. Disappointed in him. He came back from the dead and his father was still disappointed in him.

Jason's hand shook around the fork. “ _ Listened to you? _ I did. You taught me to save everyone. No matter what.”

“You shouldn't have gone to confront the Joker.” Bruce kept his voice even and calm.

“I didn't. I was saving my mother. Joker wasn't even around—”

“But she told me--”

“Let me finish talking Bruce! Stop doing this! Stop assuming you know the whole story!” There was that same shadowy creature from his dreams, breathing right in his ear. It grabbed his left arm, and then it's fingers meshed with his own. Merging with it. Skin, muscle and bone and nerves. His hand stopped shaking. It felt cold and angry. 

But he kept talking anway, trying to ignore it. The anger bubbled in his chest, begging for release. It was the only way to quell it.

“My mother was  _ outside  _ the warehouse. I was trying to get her to come with me to safety. Lead her away and wait for you. I was doing my hardest to avoid Joker. But she told me that--” His lip twitched in an angry snarl. Both that his mother had  _ done  _ this and that Bruce was  _ blaming  _ him like this. “I was trying to save her just like you taught me. And she told me Joker was  _ gone _ . She went inside and I followed her. She had a gun. And so did Joker! I was led into a trap.I wasn’t ready for two guns, or the Joker and his men. I was outnumbered and outgunned. It wasn’t my  _ fault _ !”

Bruce's face turned dark and solemn. “Jason, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. It wasn’t your fault. I should have saved you. I think you should take a break from being Robin to heal and--”

The Joker laughed and swung the crowbar, the metal crashing down on his skull. Bruce was still talking but it was drowned out by the laughing. By the pain in his head.

Jason had died as Robin and Bruce was still trying to take it away from him. He was Robin. He was Robin! This was the very fight that led to him leaving the first time! And he came to life and Bruce still couldn’t get it through his  _ fucking  _ head!

“You can’t take this  **_away_ ** from me!” Jason's hand twitched, moving faster than even his own enhanced reflexes could stop. He stabbed the fork into Bruce's hand. The metal dug into bone and veins and muscle and the creature crouched at his side began laughing and Alfred leapt up to pull Jason away. Bruce simply stared at his hand for a moment. It was like he couldn’t process what had just happened.

The crowbar crashed against flesh, breaking bones. The pointed end of the metal caught against his arm as he tried to fend off the attack but it just ripped into his skin and into his hand and Bruce was here with metal stabbed into his hand and he had just replicated his own death.

Jason released the fork and backed up. The chair crashed to the floor as he stood. “I-- I'm sorry. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry!”

Bruce carefully pulled the fork out and it began bleeding. “ _ Language _ .” was all he could eek out for a moment. He wrapped his hand in his napkin.

Silent. Thinking, cataloging information. Sheila had told him that he had saved her. He had assumed that she was an innocent in this situation. But if she had led him into the trap herself, of her own volition. He shouldn't have buried the two of them next to each other. Jason didn't deserve that.

But Jason still had anger issues, impulsiveness. Shown by this very outburst. “You still have a lot of aggression to get out of your system. We talked about this, Jason. You need to heal first.”

“I-- That wasn't me!” He wasn't sure how to even explain it. That his arm had moved of it's own volition. He stared at his hand, opening and closing a fist. No crowbar, no laughter. He was back in control now. “I didn't do that.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. It wasn't that he didn't believe Jason. That it was not a conscious action. But it was still a sign that he wasn't ready to be Robin. “I believe you, but it's just another sign that you aren't ready. You have a lot of sorrow to work through. A lot of trauma.” Even more since  _ you  _ got him killed, his regret chimed in. And Joker was still out there. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. I blamed you, and I’m sorry. I didn’t know the whole story.”

Bruce stepped towards Jason. The boy, his son, took a step back. He had that look of fear, of impending punishment. The same look that the hostages that he saved had. Not sure if the person before them would help or harm. 

It made his heart hurt and he carefully reached out, pulling Jason into a hug. “It's alright. It wasn’t your fault, I promise. But you have a lot to work through. Both from your parents and from your time living on your own and… and your  _ death _ . This isn't permanent, it's just giving you time to work through everything. And what to do with your... injuries. Even I need time to heal after I’ve been hurt, or been through a traumatic event.” Like his own son being shot and he couldn’t do anything,  or his other son dying and he hadn’t even been there.

“You can’t take this away from me. It… Being Robin meant something. _I_ meant something. I could help people. You can’t do this.”

“It’s not going to be permanent. You aren’t in trouble or being punished. But you need to sort things out first. We both do. If-- If I need to take time off of being Batman to help you, to show you that this is part of doing what we do, I  _ will _ .”

All the emotions, both anger and saddness all rushed out of Jason. He sagged into his father's arms. Bruce’s hand brushed against his stitches, and the world burst back into light and faded shadows and the creature at his right side vanished with a look of agony and disgust.

Jason finally exhaled, starting to sob.  “I don't know what's going on, Bruce. I didn't stab you. But someth-- something-- took control of me.” He clutched at his father’s sweater, burying his face into the soft fabric.

Bruce pulled two chairs from where they had fallen onto the floor, sitting down with him right next to the table. The food was forgotten. It could be eaten later. “What happened just now? Tell me.”

Jason sat down slowly, sagging against the chair. He scooted his chair around to lean against Bruce's shoulder. Bruce hugged him, looking down at him as he tried to form words to explain what just happened. “The world got really dark, heavy shadows.  And there was this-- this  _ thing  _ there. It was huge. It looked like something like that Goya painting we saw at the museum. The one with Chronus eating the body. It-- it took control of me. I don't know what it, Bruce. I don't know what's happening to me. I heard  _ Joker _ . And I remembered part of how I died. J--Joker beat me with a crowbar. Over and over. And I just-- just got this thought in my head, telling me that you deserved the same pain. So I-- or it, it, it, it stabbed you.”

_ Saturno devorando a su hijo.  _ Bruce was silent for a long time. It was just a hallucination from stress. Probably. He simply held onto his son. The pain on his hand was nothing, really. He had suffered far worse in his time as Batman. But his son's agony made his hand start to burn. Yes, he was going to find Joker as soon as he could. But for now, his son needed his attention.

“It’s alright. I believe you.” Not a lie-- he believed that Jason was  _ convinced  _ that it was real. He and Alfred exchanged a glance that promised that they would both discuss it later. But not in front of Jason. 

When Jason had these outbursts normally he would apologize, or at least run away and be quiet. He would shut down or own up to it, but he hadn’t directly lied to Bruce before. Not about this. So it must be real to him. It was the only option, at least for now.

Was this something to do with his resurrection? Things beyond the grave? Or was his son just stressed and traumatized? They would need to get to the bottom of it, and quickly. Especially if it was making him lash out so violently like this. 

“I believe you.” He whispered again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: When I Grow Up by Fever Ray
> 
> Last night I drew a funny man  
> With dark eyes and a hanging tongue  
> It goes way back  
> I've never liked that sad look  
> From someone who wants to be loved by you

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually my first time posting on AO3 so let me know what you think! Also I am looking for an editor if anyone is up for it!
> 
> Meet me on tumblr at getclever.tumblr.com


End file.
